I sit here in silence
where it's so dark that I can barely trace
the shadow of smoke escaping from my lips.
I'm secluded here with the squeaking chains of the swing set,
the distant sound of early morning sprinklers,
and the melody of croaking frogs and cricket songs.

My hair and dress dance in
the gentle breeze of the midnight air.
My fingers close upon the chains of the swings
as I lean back to gaze at the stars
and exhale the smoke from my lungs.
Cigarettes burn too quickly in moments like these.

My flip flops and toes are sprinkled with the white sand.
I remember happier days when I came here to play,
so alive with clean veins in the warm sunlight

I wasn't so alone then.
Friends that have now faded into memory
would surround me as we would talk of nonsense and boys
laughing, while swinging higher and higher
until our stomachs felt that sensation of flying.
The world seemed so much smaller then
and gravity didn't push down as strong.
It was easier to soar.

Now, the night is so dark
with the shadow-covered moon.
I'm alone again,
though if I listen,
I can still hear the echoes of the past
and I can almost feel the presence
of the nostalgic rays of the sun trying to reach me.

Once again, I'm getting dizzy
swinging higher and higher,
trying to regain that feeling of flying.

You'll never clip my wings

Amy Backus

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/swinging-at-midnight/